


NATTMARA

by ffelweed



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: continuing with my older wormcraft stories that i’m posting, grizzly hills is whack 0/10 do not recommend, this time about my human hunter!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffelweed/pseuds/ffelweed
Summary: Faile rose early, like she always did. In the quiet of the pre-dawn, before Silje and her mother wakened, after her father had already left to hunt for the day, she could carefully crawl from her bed. On those mornings, she would sneak into the kitchen and pack a small breakfast: a roll, hastily cut in half, small pieces of smoked salmon purloined from her mother’s storage, and a boiled egg, sliced thin to top the rest. It’s wrapped in a small cloth, reused and rewashed so many times that it’s soft and thin, useless for cleaning, and packed into a small satchel, thrown over her shoulder as her gun was gathered from its station by the door, only slightly smaller and lighter than her father’s missing rifle. The heavy wooden door opened with only the softest touch of her fingers, sighing shut again behind the sound of deerskinned footsteps.





	NATTMARA

Faile rose early, like she always did. In the quiet of the pre-dawn, before Silje and her mother wakened, after her father had already left to hunt for the day, she could carefully crawl from her bed. On those mornings, she would sneak into the kitchen and pack a small breakfast: a roll, hastily cut in half, small pieces of smoked salmon purloined from her mother’s storage, and a boiled egg, sliced thin to top the rest. It’s wrapped in a small cloth, reused and rewashed so many times that it’s soft and thin, useless for cleaning, and packed into a small satchel, thrown over her shoulder as her gun was gathered from its station by the door, only slightly smaller and lighter than her father’s missing rifle. The heavy wooden door opened with only the softest touch of her fingers, sighing shut again behind the sound of deerskinned footsteps. 

In this, the moment before the sun rose, in the cracking of light spilling over the heavy treetops, grey and misty, melancholy and silent, it was easy to forget your name, to become a whisper in the wind. The girl, only fourteen, scrambled up a tree, branches rustling under her weight. The tree was used to this misplaced morning affection; this was a simple tradition, passed from father to daughter, the start to most every morning. It was a small thing that Faile and Kjell Hjort shared, while her sister and mother stayed home, mending and embroidering small things for women with richer husbands, who lived in Silverbrook itself and not out in the woods and outskirts, who didn’t have rabbits and salmon hanging from their eaves to be smoked and stored, whose bread was fresher and bought instead of made in the sweltering heat of their small oven. Silje and Ylva didn’t mind their work, though Faile’s only attempt had left her with pricked fingers and fabric stained with blood. They took pride in their red and blue thread, in the white fabric it found its home in. Their embroidery found its way onto festival outfits, onto wedding dresses, onto shawls and scarves. Faile’s work, however, found its way into bellies.

She took a pride of her own in it. She and her father kept them fed throughout the seasons, and the skins they brought back clothed them more often than the fancy embroidery her younger sister put so much stock in. Soft leather, made from a doe she felled last spring, formed the shirt she wore now. Her pants were thick cotton, bartered for with the heavy pelt of a worg. And there was an ease to it, sitting high in a tree or hidden in the brush, waiting for the right target to pass by the right place. It cleared her thoughts, brought a sort of thoughtfulness she didn’t usually bother with. 

The crunch of a branch brought the hunter out of her concentration. Below, two bears circled the tree. One, over-large and fat, yawned at her. The other, little more than a cub, made something akin to the purr of a large cat before sitting down, staring up at Faile. She smiled, tossing the remains of her smoked salmon to them, stretching her arms out and leaning her gun against the trunk of the tree. Agnar and Astrid were steady companions, carefully raised in childish petulance when her father had dared to suggest he get her a hunting dog, for safety. She’d found Agnar in her father’s company, when one of his traps had caught a mother bear on accident. She saved the cub from her father’s merciful gun and, years later, had done the same once again when she discovered another lost and orphaned bear. 

The two curled around the base of the tree, Astrid playfully batting at the larger bear and tumbling about, and Faile returned to her watch. She didn’t have long, today. Her mother and father had errands in Silverbrook. Normally Faile and Silje would come along, the two sisters racing through the small market, plucking at trinkets and treasures they would sadly put back as soon as their mother’s eyes glanced their way. But the house needed sweeping, the clothes washing, and they were confined away to the home for the day. 

And so Faile took in the only quiet she would have from Silje’s nervous chatter for the day, a small sigh seeping from her lips as she climbed down from the tree. The bears parted for her, nuzzling and pushing her about on the walk home. She tangled her fingers in their fur as she walked, humming old songs. 

Her parents were already outside when she came home, both dressed in their feast day finery. The corners of Faile’s mouth twitched down into the smallest of frowns, but she kept one hand on Agnar, one hand holding the strap of her rifle, and nodded. 

“Nothing?” Kjell glanced at his daughter, shrugging. “‘s too early, anyways.”

“‘s why I didn’t look, da.” Faile grinned. “How long you gonna be gone?”

“We’ll be back tonight, but it’ll take the whole day. Don’t go running off, dear, your sister will need your help.” Ylva Hjort smoothed her skirts, then her hair, taking care to make sure the elaborate braids were still in place. “And don’t let those bears into the house. Silje’s too young for them.”

“I know, ma. ‘sides, Agnar don’t fit in the house anymore. And Silje’s ten. I was nine when I got Agnar.”

“And it was too young!” An old fight, one that her mother dismissed as soon as it came up. The older woman sighed, still fidgeting with her hair. “We’ll see you both tonight. Try to behave, please? We’ll bring home something nice for dinner, how’s that?” She turned away before Faile could respond, and her father just winked. 

“We’ll go huntin’ tomorrow.”

“I know, da.” She smiled before slipping into the house, pushing the over-affectionate bears away so they wouldn’t try to follow her in. Silje still slept in their corner of the cottage, blankets thrown haphazardly in her sleep. Faile just shook her head and settled in, starting the slow process of dismantling and cleaning her rifle.

The chores didn’t take as long as the girls expected, which pulled Faile’s mouth back into a frown. By the time sunset had come and gone, the older girl was loudly grumbling, shoving smoked salmon and bread into her sister’s hands. 

“But it’s not breakfast!” 

“Silje, ma said she was bringin’ back dinner. I didn’t make anythin’.” Faile rubbed her forehead, glancing at the door for the third time in as many minutes. “We’ll have real dinner when they get home, alrigh’?”

For a moment, she thought Silje was going to push. The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she snatched the sandwich from her sister’s hands. “Fine.”

Faile’s shoulders slumped, fingers already making her own sandwich. She ate mechanically, silent, with her gaze trained steadily on the door. The walk to Silverbrook only took an hour, at most. Sunset was hours ago, and her father wouldn’t be reckless enough to make that walk at night. Not when worgs had been heard closer and closer to the town. A new pack, chasing out the old, leaving proof of their territory in strange calls and the remains of kills. No, he’d wait, hole up in the inn or with one of her mother’s customers or friends. 

“Silje, we gotta sleep. They’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Ma was gonna show me how to do a new stitch tonigh’.” The younger girl’s voice wobbled, and she slipped back into the speech her mother had tried to force out of her, the kind that fancy women from the town looked down on. 

“‘s too dark for that anyways, now. Wouldn’ you rather learn when you can see what you’re doin’?”

The girl nodded, red-blonde hair glinting in the firelight.

“Then go to bed, and when you wake up ma’ll teach you it. And we’ll have that fancy food she promised, won’ we?”

“Are you gonna come to bed, too?”

“Soon as I put away the rest of the salmon. Don’ wanna waste it, righ’?”

“Righ’.” Silje didn’t move, and Faile held in a small sigh. She winked at her sister, eating the few pieces of leftover salmon, and ruffled the girl on the head. 

The curled together in their shared bed, blankets covering them both, but Faile didn’t sleep until the moon was high in the sky, shining through the window to watch her dreams.

The moon was setting when the door creaked open. Faile sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes as Silje wrapped her arms around her sister’s waist, still lost in sleep. Scant light from the stars drifted through the open door, outlining heavy, unfamiliar shapes, noses raised high to sniff the wind. Faile’s breath hitched, hand already covering Silje’s mouth as she shook her into wakefulness. The girl tried to ask something, but Faile shook her head, tapped the side of her sister’s mouth with a finger, and turned her attention to the creatures in their door.

The things stood on two legs, though the way they hunched had led her to initially assume worgs had opened their door. Ears perked and moved, listening, and even in the darkness Faile could see the outline of twisted hands with sharp claws. The outline of their profile in the starlight was akin to a worg, as well, and the girl nearly cursed under her breath before catching herself. 

The glass pane of her window didn’t open. Her mother had thought the money a waste, when they first built the cottage; what use was a window that opened, when the door did just as well? Her gun lay at its usual post, guarding that same door. Her skinning knife lay on the table, halfway between the bed and the door, still too far. And nothing but a skinning knife, against strange creatures who had five of the same on each hand? 

Wet warmth flowed over her fingers, pulling her from her thoughts. Silje was pressed to her chest, hands covering her own, helping to keep the younger girl’s mouth silent. But she was shaking. Silje’s small fingers trembled against Faile and, idly, she wondered if they shook this much when her sister learned a new stitch. 

If they didn’t move, maybe the things would leave. Other bears tried to break into the house sometimes, searching for food when an injury kept them from hunting. Worgs, separated from the rest of their pack, sometimes did the same. The entire cottage was drenched in their scent; they only had to worry about making noise. The creatures would leave, and Faile could get her gun in case they came back. 

But the things didn’t move towards the food. Despite the girls’ stillness, their silence, the two creatures moved towards their bed, snuffling and shuffling. Silje screamed under her sister’s hand, and the monsters looked them both in the eye. 

A flash of feast day clothes, shredded and ruined, as they rushed forward enough for Faile to take in what they were wearing. The same clothes her parents had worn that morning, the embroidery her mother had put so much work into and boasted about for weeks, destroyed. Her hand on her sister’s arm, running for the door, dodging claws and teeth, her long nightgown nearly tangling in her legs. Her mother’s voice, distorted and heavy, filling her ears with calming lies, slipping past the thick lips of the wolf even as Silje screamed and sobbed. 

The gun in her hand, her sister dragging behind her, stumbling in the dark. The scent of blood on the wind, drawing Agnar from the wood. Fur under her fingers, under her legs, as she mounted the large bear and tossed Silje up beside her. The misty light of the sun, peeking through the fog of morning. 

Agnar brought the sisters to a cave, hidden deep in the woods, the area around it littered with the scattered bones of deer. Faile stiffened, hand on her gun, until Astrid tumbled out from the cave, rushing to them in childish joy. The girl relaxed, murmuring to her younger sister, and slipped from the bear’s back.

The first thing she saw was red. Red, like on feast days and festivals, a sea of crimson wool. Dyed with blood instead of beets or cranberries, the empty look in Silje’s brown eyes all-too reminiscent of the product of Faile’s own hunts. The side of her throat ripped open, claw marks shredding open the arm her older sister hadn’t been holding as they pushed past the creatures that had been their parents. 

Bile rose in Faile’s throat, and her stomach emptied itself where she stood. She hadn’t noticed. Somehow, she hadn’t noticed. Why hadn’t she noticed?

Ten years old, Silje Hjort was buried under the best cairn her fourteen year old sister could make. Heavy stones made her grave, marking a solemn cave, deep in the woods. 

Faile sat beside it, and she cleaned her gun.

Her father had promised a hunt. 

The river still carried a chill from the winter, but Faile waded into it anyway, scrubbing as much of her sister’s blood off her as she could. Cold water reddened her hands and arms, flushing her skin as she scrubbed the top layer off entirely. Her nightgown, she could do nothing about. It was irrevocably stained, ruined. The soft cotton remained a pale shade of pink even after her fingers had pruned up in the freezing water. No matter, though. She waded back to the shore, sitting down and scooping up small globs of mud in her hands. It found its way into her hair, covering her face, skin, and dress, until all that was left was the whites of her eyes. It wasn’t the best cover, but it would mask her scent. Well enough, anyway. And if it didn’t, it didn’t matter. 

Muddy hands reached for her too-clean gun when she made her way back to the cave. Agnar and Astrid waited patiently by the mouth of it, but the girl shooed them away. This was her job. Her home, her sister, her duty. 

As she walked through the forest, bare feet scratching and tripping over broken twigs, the mud she’d coated herself in began to dry. It was heavy, pinching, and she itched at it idly. But the river-- and the cave-- weren’t far from her cottage. Ten minutes of walking, and it would be over. Just ten more minutes. Ten more minutes. 

The words echoed in her head, punctuated with every footstep, until the mud and the forest floor faded into the background. Ten more minutes. She stepped on a rock. Ten more minutes. A rabbit darted out from the brush, woken and startled by the strange creature roaming through its home. Ten more minutes. Her knees slammed into the forest floor as she tripped, earning a sharp intake of breath. Ten more minutes. 

By the time her hand rested upon the tree she climbed most every morning, patches of mud had been scrubbed off, her dirty nightgown was shredded from the knees down, and her gun had a few new dents from the falls she took. Eyes wide, wild, she clambered up the trunk, slipping and ripping open her already-sore and scratched feet on the bark. But it didn’t matter. It was almost over. 

Through the scope of her rifle, she could see her home. Shattered glass, the front door still thrown wide open, her sister’s blood coating the doorstep. Her grip on the gun tightened, finger trembling on the trigger. She hadn’t noticed. Why hadn’t she noticed? She should’ve noticed. 

A sharp breath, and she forced the thoughts away. It could wait. It was almost over, after all. 

Movement caught her eye, and she focused back on the scene before her. The monster wearing her mother’s dress had its face in its hands, and its shoulders shook with tears. Blood covered its muzzle, its claws, the ruined feast-day dress. The other creature reached a hand out, setting it on the thing’s shoulder, comforting. The first turned its head away, its left ear facing Faile. 

She took her first shot. 

The worg-thing that had been her mother crumpled, mangled face and head barely visible as Ylva Hjort fell to the ground, her blood joining her daughter’s in the soil. A strangled cry, one Faile could hear even from her tree in the distance, ripped its way from the other creature’s throat. It reached for the fallen monster, bending in half over her body and clutching one of her hands in its own. Faile took her second shot. 

The bullet slammed into the open front door, inches from the thing that had been her father’s face. Kjell Hjort paused, raising his muzzle from his wife’s corpse, and turned his face to the tree he and his eldest daughter had shared. Through the scope, she saw his maw open and close, the word only barely recognizable. 

The town of Valgarde was the biggest thing she’d ever seen. Soldiers, decked out in heavy plate and blue-and-gold tabards, lined the entrance, raising their swords when they saw she wasn’t one of the Lich King’s dead creatures, come to root them out of the land he had claimed, or one of the vrykul intent on cleansing Northrend of intruders. They didn’t ask any questions, didn’t ask why she was covered in blood and mud, why she traveled with two bears and nothing to her name but a nightgown and a gun. They took the dead deer draped over Agnar’s back and handed her a skinning knife and some clothes, the cotton finer than anything she had ever worn before. For the promise of a second deer, she was given a room in the inn until the boat from Menethil Harbor returned, to take her somewhere new. 

Every night, she dreamed of the monster that had been her father. Every night, she eyed him through her scope, watched him say her name. 

Every night, she failed to shoot.


End file.
